Ripples in the lake

Chapter 3

David

Geoff was in mid curse when the his mobile rang. He'd been wrestling with the brakes on an ancient Mercedes for the past hour, had bruised and bleeding knuckles, and was sorely conscious of the daft old bugger who's car it was, hovering in the background convinced that he knew a better way to get the disc brakes off. What Colonel bloody Smythe or whatever he was failed to comprehend was just how rusty his beloved banger was. Probably had the same perspective on his shriveled wife who sat huddled in the waiting room trying to make sense of her husband's last outburst. In fact everyone in the waiting room was trying to do the same.

Twelve long years Geoff had worked in this garage. And he's learned to expect stress from elderly men and their precious cars. How this old thing was still going was beyond him. Could have been a lovely car if it'd been looked after. But blind faith had clearly played a larger part in its life.

He needed a break, and the ringing phone gave him an excuse. Downing tools, he reached into his overalls, extracted the phone, and headed across the stained concrete floor of the workshop, towards the sheeting rain outside. He'd decided he hated old people. The whole bloody minded, pompous, self righteous, idiotic lot of them. A fag break and a chinwag with a mate would help to ease his mood.

It was Norma. Not necessarily bad though.

'Hi'.

Pause.

'You're kidding me.'

Pause.

At that moment, a big drop of water parted company with the edge of the roof, to which it had been clinging apparently waiting for Geoff to stand just where he was, and so managed to pass precisely through the end of his cigarette, on it's way to the ground, extinguishing the fag in mid flight. Slightly bent by the experience, the cigarette drooped slowly as water crept up it's length. Soggy and useless.

In one of those rich moments, resplendent with quiet insight and profound understanding of the brevity of life, Geoff stood and looked at the pouring rain, and the wet, shiny roofs, and the greyness of everything about him and knew that somewhere back down the line, he must have done something really terrible.

'Yes, I'm still here. When are they getting here?'

He loved his mother according to some filial code of duty which precluded him, according to an inbuilt sense of justice, from admitting that he couldn't stand her. And later that afternoon, she'd be here. Mad Violet. With her stupid hats and her inbuilt resistance to logic or reason. The last time she'd invaded his adult life, apart from having poured olive oil into the washing machine instead of washing liquid, she'd brought him and Norma a present of a stuffed duck. Not of the edible variety but... a stuffed duck, for putting on the mantelpiece he supposed. It had long since ended up where dead ducks ought to be. With other dead stuff.

And what made matters worse was that she was bringing her two accomplices. Audrey and Wilf. Her best friends. Geoff had only met Audrey once, and that had been too often. She was slightly stooped, and walked with a limp, and had this way of peering up at him with her head cocked slightly to one side, smiling grimly in a way designed to make him know he was just plain wrong. And that was that. A 'shut up you young fool and listen' kind of way. Stupid old hippy.

As for Wilf, if there was any justice in life, he'd be running a geriatric gay bar in Patpong. Not that he'd be capable of actually running anything. Geoff could only assume that Wilf's attachment to his mother and Audrey satisfied some innate sexual subordinate fantasy. The fawning little weevil was deeply suspect. Definitely not male. Some sort of genetic mistake.

Thus it was that Geoff spent the ten seconds following the answering of his phone. A lot had happened. His fag had been annihilated, he'd seen life for what it really was, and he came to realise that the next twenty four hours had to be seen as penance for misdeeds in a previous life.

Norma had offered no sympathy. Prior to ringing off, she'd simply told him not be so nasty about his own mother. So now he felt even worse. Discovered.

Then Colonel bloody Smythe Empire When-I-Was-Young Dickhead returned Geoff's attention to matters in hand, bellowing something about G clamps and brake fluid. The daft old duffer was standing next to his car, which was raised up on the ramp, and was offering his opinion on how the job should really be done. He wasn't legally allowed to stand there and Geoff, fuelled slightly by a growing sense of irritation at the complete lack of control he had over his life, shouted rather too loudly that The Colonel should bloody well get back into the waiting room and shut up until the job was done. Surprisingly, this seemed to work and the Colonel, feathers clearly ruffled, humphed and marched back to join his apprehensive wife, and the other amused onlookers.

Geoff had two hours in which to fix this damn car before his mother and her maddening cohorts arrived, expecting the exhaust to be repaired on their clapped out car. And it was already five o'clock. And they were intending to stay the night.

------------------

'Dahling!'

'Muvver'.

'You remember Audrey and Wilf don't you?'

'Of course he does you stupid woman. It wasn't that long ago.' said Audrey.

'Yes it was.' said Wilf.

'It doesn't matter...' said Vi '...how long ago it was. I'm asking him if he remembers you.'

'That was when you brought the duck.' said Wilf. Feeling brave for once. 'Yonks ago.'

'Err, yep.' Mumbled Geoff. 'What's the matter with this van then?'

'Brought the duck?' said Vi. For heavens sake, finish the sentence. What are you on about?'

'I told you you shouldn't have brought it.' Said Audrey, petulantly. 'You never listen.'

'It was green.' proclaimed Wilf. Quietly though. Everyone looked at him, and he looked at his feet. There was a long pause whilst everyone reflected on the conversation thus far.

'The van..?' ventured Geoff.

'Oh it's making the most awful noise.' said Audrey, welcoming the change of subject. 'I don't know what it is. It's exhausted or something. And Vi doesn't know either. It's the rain. Probably.'

'I do indeed know. Don't you speak for me Audrey Sidebotham. I know what it is. It's the eggzorst. Wilf said.'

Wilf had slunk away by now, and was standing just where Geoff had stood, smoking a pipe. Geoff suddenly felt a kind of sympathy for him. A little man stood silhouetted against the brighter grey outside, overwhelmed by just about everyone one and everything. His pipe smoke appeared to his right, quivered momentarily. shifted this way and that with the air currents, and then faded away.

Geoff wasn't normally prone to these moments of reflection, where time stood still and everything came into focus. But this was the second such moment this afternoon.

An hour later, he'd repaired the exhaust on the van and reluctantly agreed that his unwelcome guests should follow him back to his home and his waiting wife, as the streets grew shinier in the wet, lamplit gloom and all the normal people rushed past him on their way home from work.

'You're driving.'

'It's Wilf's turn'.

Wilf looked at Geoff without expression. Knocked his pipe against his trouser leg, glanced again at the rain, and moved to take his designated place. The red tail lights of Geoff's car, clear one moment, became smeared and blurred until the wipers danced their dance, and then blurred again in time to the never ending conversation beside him.

 

Ripples in the Lake Chapter 2

Ripples in the Lake

Chapter 2

By Graham

‘Well, I must say I don’t relish going out in that.’ Audrey’s nose, pressed hard against the window, had scribbled a skewed figure eight across it; an unintended legacy left in the thick condensation.

‘Really? How do you expect to get to the van then? Psychic transportation?’

‘Why is it, Vi, that your sarcasm is so particularly sharp first thing in the mornings?’

‘Practice.’

Vi dropped her single, battered old suitcase down besides Audrey’s matched set of three. She took Audrey’s place at the window and strained to see through the ragged smudge.

‘It's atrocious. I can hardly see across the car park. Mind you, I can see cars parked both sides of the van. And close. Wilf won’t like that.’

‘I thought you were driving today.’

‘I’m not getting us out of that parking space. He put it in there, he can extract it.’

‘You are a bundle of fun this morning Violet.’

‘Yes, well…’

‘Disappointing night?’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?

‘Nothing.’ Audrey turned away to hide a wicked little smile. ‘I didn’t see you or Wilf for breakfast this morning.’

‘I had breakfast.’ Vi’s response was snappy. Audrey was unsurprised at how easy it was to hook the wiry little woman. ‘I was down before you.’

‘And Wilf?’ She was pushing now, being deliberately mischievous.

‘Wilf? Why should I know when he came down? His room’s not even on the same…’ She trailed off as the penny dropped. ‘Oh, that’s disgusting.’

‘I don’t see why,’ Audrey was really enjoying herself now, ‘I thought you liked him.’

‘I like porridge, but I don’t want it my bed.’

Audrey would have kept up the game, but she had spotted the head waitress coming out of the dining room.

‘Excuse me. Do you happen to know if our friend has been down to breakfast?

‘Her name?’ She was already scanning the list in her hand.

‘Him, it’s a him. Mister Garforth.’

‘No, I don’t think…’ There was a pause as she finished checking. ‘Well he has not been checked off. And breakfast is finished now. I’m afraid he has missed it.’

‘Oh he won’t like that.’ Vi sounded genuinely concerned. ‘He gets grumpy if he doesn’t get his breakfast.’

‘Ah,’ The young woman spotted a note on her sheet, ‘he seems to have –‘

 ‘Oh my God.’ Audrey was back at the window. ‘Quick! Help! Quick. Oh please, quick!’

‘What’s up with you?’

‘Stolen. It’s being stolen. The van.’

‘Stolen?’ Vi’s concern was now focused on Audrey.

‘Stolen?’ echoed the waitress.

Audrey rushed over to the next window, stumbling over something soft and squishy in her panic. Something between a squawk and a howl snarled up to join Audrey’s shrieks in breaking the previous serenity of the lobby. A black blob catapulted out from under her left foot and careered into Vi’s suitcase, knocking it over. She had woken the hotel cat.

‘It’s gone.

‘I’m not surprised,’ said Vi. ‘Poor thing. Cats don’t like being stamped on.’

‘Not the bloody cat, the van. Quick, get the police. It’s gone. Out the gates and down the road. We’ve lost out van.’

‘This young lady will ring them for us, won’t you…’ Vi turned to find the waitress no longer at hand. More interested in the fate of the cat than guests’ vehicles, she was disappearing into the kitchens, desperately trying to catch up with the bolting feline.

‘Use your mobile. Have you got your mobile?’

‘Will it work here?’

‘What do you mean, will it work here?’ Audrey was incredulous. ‘We’re half way to Exeter, not Moscow or somewhere. Of course it will work.’

‘What’s the number then?’

‘What’s the number? What’s the ruddy number? Are you being deliberately stupid? It’s nine, nine, nine of course.’

‘Well, at home it is, yes. But I don’t know what the code is here do I?’

Audrey, usually so placid, was beginning to lose patience. ‘There is no code you wizened little elf.’

‘There is no need to start getting abusive.’

‘Give me that phone.’ Audrey snatched the instrument out of Vi’s hand as she withdrew it from her handbag. ‘There is a penalty for obstructing the police you know.’

‘I’m not obstructing the police. There’s no police here.’

‘That’s what I’m on about. There’s no police here, because you keep prevaricating.’ Audrey punched hard three times on the rubbery nine key.

‘I don’t think you’re going to get the police on that.’

‘I keep telling you Vi, it doesn’t matter what county you use it in.’

No I don’t mean that. That’s my calculator.’

There was a brief moment of complete silence as Audrey took in this information. She was just contemplating whether to ram the calculator back into Vi’s handbag or throw it to the floor and give it the ‘cat’ treatment with her foot when the outside door was pushed sharply open.

Wilf’s entrance was dramatically accompanied by a loud clap of thunder. He stood, half drenched, with rain dripping off his sodden fedora. ‘Good morning,’ he said cheerily, ‘van’s outside.’

‘But… but…’ Audrey’s voice was uncommonly weak. ‘Did you… have you…?’

‘She said the van had been stolen. Said it was driven off down the road.’

‘Oh no,’ Wilf said, ‘I think she must be confused.’

‘She’s more than confused. She’s bloody mental. Called me a wizend dwarf or something.’

‘Elf actually,’ offered Audrey in her newly shrunken voice.

‘You’re not helping yourself.’

‘It was raining, so I thought I would bring the van to the door for you ladies. I’ll give you a hand with your luggage, mine’s in already.’

‘But… why drive off like that? I saw you go out the gate.’

‘Mmmm. Well, you know what I’m like about reversing. Going out one gate and in the other gave me the easiest angle for the front door. Clever eh?’

‘But…’ Poor Audrey was really struggling to put a solid sentence together now. ‘But, you… you haven’t had any breakfast. And now... well, they’re…

‘I had it my room.’

‘Ha,’ said Vi, now quite jubilant.

‘Really treated myself. Went back to bed and ate it while I watched the telly.’

‘In bed?’ Audrey could barely more than whisper.

‘Yes. It was great. I had porridge.’

End of chapter

Over to…

Ripples in the Lake Chapter One

Ripples in the lake

Chapter one

 ‘Budge up Vi, my arse needs more space than this these days’

There wasn’t much room with the three of them in the van’s cab. They’d all thickened out through the years, and Audrey wasn’t one to be uncomfortable if there was any choice in the matter.

‘you should try things from where I am,  I’d forgotten I had the places that gear lever just got to’

The journey would take most people no more than 6 hours, but with Wilf driving, avoiding motorways and refusing to turn right unless he had to, they were looking at a road trip of at least a week.

The van was packed with boxes, suitcases and various items to furnish the three bed stone cottage they were heading to. Nestling on the edge of a wooded hill with a steep track leading up from the lake it had become the holy grail of a shared late-life crisis, and the three friends had made a decided to cash in the equity and leave the children mourning their inheritance. A little further down the valley was a pretty, touristy village, with a population apparently consisting of a strange hybrid of ex-forces, white witches and builders with a fetish for Kevin McCloud.

‘I still like ‘Elsinor’  Wilf said, the women jeered him.  

‘fool. You liked Dunroamin too though didn’t you. Any way it’s got a name, just you don’t like it’

‘well, ‘ he protested  ‘life in a country idyll shouldn’t be lived somewhere called Waterloo, not unless you’re a gay old sailor anyway.’

‘well, you never know your luck, you might nab yourself a distinguished rear-admiral from down the hill’

Still cheerful at the outset of the journey they laughed gently and settled into an amiable silence.  Naming the house could wait though they occasionally punctuated the journey with other  suggestions  they definitely wouldn’t use.  They were overtaken by everything else on the road, and the early autumn daylight started to fade.  They had decided to only venture out to a hotel they had been to with the over 60s, which had a lovely landscaping by capability brown and a tea room looking out over the formal gardens, even though the fountains made Wilf need to use the toilet. It also had been the backdrop to the first glimmer of the plan they were now realising. It held a very tender place in their hearts. It also had a one way drive and a large car park, which meant Wilf didn’t have to reverse on the first day.  

Having negotiated the parking, and extracted their overnight bags they established themselves in the empty lounge bar, ordered dinner and started on the drinks and  journey planning.

‘right Vi, you’re driving tomorrow, and I think we can get up to Exeter.’

‘I’m not driving in Exeter’

‘ you don’t have to drive in Exeter,’

‘well why did you say we had to drive in Exeter

‘I didn’t say we had to drive in Exeter -‘

‘he did didn’t he aud?'

‘he did yes Vi’

‘no I didn’t,  this is going to be a very long week if you keep this up’ Wilf raised his hand to prevent further interruption. ‘we have to get to Norma’s before it gets dark, she’s this side of Exeter, that’s where we need to get to. I’ve put her address in the sat nav –‘

‘I’m not using it if its that woman’

‘I like that man’s voice, who is it? That tall man…you know. The one with the moustache and the silly walk’

‘Hitler? Have they put his voice on Sat Nav? I don’t think I want to follow instructions from Hitler.’

‘Not Hitler, that man, you know, oh god what is his name’ Audrey scratched her head

‘My first was a tall man with a moustache. Ginger he was.’ Vi  breathed out heavily with a wistful look

‘Hitler wasn’t ginger’

‘Not Hitler, Derek.’

‘Derek who? How can you tell he’s ginger just from his voice?’

Wilf and Vi both looked at Audrey without being able to think of a response.  Wilf tried to get them on track again

‘I’ve put  their address into the sat nav, yes it’s the man, and it should take us an hour and a half in, Norma said she’d do us some lunch , and Geoff will be home in the afternoon, and he’ll have a look at the exhaust and we can start out on Thursday morning nice and early for Tom.’

Vi’s golden son. He always visited and phoned, always around at Christmas since Dad died, and as happy for Vi and her friends as any son could decently be, but he was the most boring man in the world, with the most boring wife and the most boring house and the most boring cat in the world.

The bonhomie was dulled slightly round the table as they contemplated that overnight stay.

‘John Cleese!’ Audrey shouted triumphantly

Everything hurt. I had to peel my cheek from the dried vomit sticking me to the rough utilitarian bath mat. Whilst levering myself up onto one elbow I brushed across my face with the back of my hand. Hair tangled over my eyes and mouth,  catching on the rough skin made raw and broken by however many hours against the floor . It was another grey dawn, but I could see and feel the mucus blood and undigested pills in the sick all around me all over the room and covering the sink and the sides of the bath and the  toilet bowl. The smell hit me and I started again, though I had nothing left to expel.  

Then a bell rang. And rang twice and twice again. I looked over to the bed and shuffled to pick up the phone. Myles. There was only a moment of signal then he was gone. He said no signal. More lies. Enough to taunt me but no help at all.

I realised my face was wet. Still everything hurt and I had nothing to hold, I cried and cried. No sound, just tears. The signal clicked on again, and text message flashed up ‘you have 17 new messages’.

In a foetal curl I carried on weeping silently. How can I be here? A year ago, less, we had everything, I loved the way you’d watch me walk across the room, and ask me where I’d been who I’d spoken to. It made me feel alive knowing that you,  tall handsome strong, wanted me, every part of me. That was so good, felt so good. We talked about a family. You wanted children. I wasn’t sure, but you made me feel so -  whole again. The way you talked, it would be wonderful. So wonderful. But it isn’t. it never will be, I never will be.

Horatio climbed onto the bed and started to lick my face. His breath smelled sweeter than the room. I pushed him away. Sitting up on the edge of the bed I reached for the table lamp. The switch made no difference. I moved to the window and drew back the curtains. The day was still grey, and barely made any difference to the light in the room.

When I put my fingers to the back of my throat I’d made a decision. I never thought I’d come back from that, but here I was. Not sure that was the end of it. But here I was now.

The old casement windows wouldn’t dislodge to allow any fresh air in, the paint on the frames was cracked and peeling but thick and clearly had not been shifted for some time. I suddenly felt I had to get out. I looked down at my dress, it was caked with bile, but I reasoned my coat would cover the worst, and wrapped it about me.

Horatio looked expectantly at me, I had no idea how long we’d been there, it might have been days though in amongst the rancid human odour there was no foul faecal smell of dog shit. Not much to say about a life, but we couldn’t’ have been in there for that long.

I reached for the door and turned the handle. No movement. I pulled again and still nothing. Oh yes, I can’t kill myself properly and now I’ve lost the key. I looked around there was no sign of a key, nor of a key hole.

That couldn’t be right surely, I pulled the handle again, but nothing moved. A sudden sense of panic hit me and I started to bang on the door and found my voice. ‘Hey. Hello. Hello can anyone hear me?

‘Yes’

I froze, The voice had come from behind me, inside the room.

‘I can hear you. And see you. You can’t see me though can you,  you dirty whore. Look at you disgusting bitch, dressed in your own filth, you’re not going anywhere’

Chapter Five

I can barely open the envelope. My fingers refuse to co-operate as if they can’t bring themselves to witness the contents. The handwriting is mine, but someone else has borrowed it. The floor disappears beneath me; acid rises in my throat. I read…

Dear Myles,

I know you will never get this, but something inside compels me to write it anyway. You deserve to know that I loved you once. We may have disagreed on literature, but you helped me rewrite my story and filled the pages with hope. But it was all fantasy. I began to feel as if I existed only through your eyes. Perhaps I was always a phantom. When I met you I was so lost. Still reeling from my diagnosis; confused and bewildered by the implications. You made me believe my condition was just a label. Dissociative identity disorder – meaningless words you said. I was so grateful I clung onto you for dear life. But fear and gratitude are no basis for a relationship. They sour into bitterness and resentment. There are days, Myles, when I don’t know who I am. Not in a pretentious way. I don’t mean like that. Existential angst would provide light relief, believe me. I can’t even count on the fundaments. Who am I? I am many and I am none. There are parts of me so menacing, I fear them. They lurk as if… I literally haunt my own mind, scurrying down corridors and past doors I dare not open. But you prised open the worst one of all, Myles. And we must both live with the consequences. I shouldn’t have pushed you away. You looked so furious when you grabbed my arm… I had seen those eyes before. A dizzying rage possessed me. It was as if the reflex had been there all along; a spring-loaded trap just waiting to bite. No. I will never go back there. I yearn to be marooned; an island no one can invade. Somewhere she will never find me. See, even now she… you… frighten me. As if it wasn’t enough that you violated my body, you are now invading it from within. A benign tumour that swims in a sea of hatred and disgust and threatens to eat me from the inside out. As I write, the cells are dividing. It grows; I shrink. I thrashed your skull until there was more of its contents on the lamp than there was in your head. I watched the guts literally spill from your body… and yet you live on. There is no escape for any of us it seems.

Susan

Beneath these insane ramblings, are scrawled the words:

Blue Anchor. 7pm. David.

I have no idea who he is or what it means. As for Myles, it is all nonsense. He had got up and gone to work as usual, his grey suit… No wait. He came back. The document he forgot… then he saw my bags and… The realisation of what she has done, what I have done hits me so hard I fall to the ground clutching my stomach. Myles. We had grown apart, or rather so close the relationship threatened to engulf me, but… I grab the single pill from my bedside and place it on my tongue. How could I create a life? I who does not even exist. I, a murderess who has destroyed the only love and mercy ever shown to me? But before I swallow, I am consumed with self pity. The pill catches in my throat and I gag, ejecting it across the floor. What if this life within me is who I am? What if I have created myself… I can become the mother I never… 

The room lurches from side to side as the vertigo strikes. As she strikes me again and again; the vein in her temple pulsating, saliva spewing forth as she spits the words over and over that I am worthless and hateful. She knocks me to the ground and thrashes me with the birthday gift my father has given me that very morning. I watch as my seven-year-old-self switches off inside, oblivious to the beatings; she plays with her dolls and has tea with Mrs Poole. If she concentrates really hard on Mrs Poole’s words then the screams become more distant, the pain just a faint crackle of electricity. Mrs Poole tells her she is the brightest sweetest girl in her class and she wishes she had a daughter just like her… But the screams won’t be muffled any longer. 

I retch up hot green bile, my body convulsing as if in labour. Labour. The reality hits me harder than the memory of my mother’s blows. I pick up the familiar pot of pills from my wash bag. Enough for 13 days. How hopeful. What was she planning to do after that, I wonder. Or was this the plan all along? I crunch them between my teeth and gag as the chalky mulch clags in my throat. I swallow and swallow and swallow. The way I have been doing all my life. Swallowing down the agony until it swallows me. Me: a matryoshka of self-hatred and pain. So much pain. I swallow one last time. And wait for liberation.

                                                                                              (by Beth) 

Chapter Four

I must have stood there for a full five minutes, lost in a reverie, flicking through memories as though paging through a photograph album. Some were good, but most less so. And there were gaps that I couldn’t explain. Brief periods where neither Myles’ nor my life seemed to have been recorded. What happened to the summer of 2008? There were no associations, no images, no memories of scent or mood or place. Nothing good or bad, just a blank space. Disconcerting that there were so many of these.

I did recall some happy times though. Pictures of laughing faces flickered and shimmered as though seen through a very old telescope. Silent movie frame grabs that each stirred tentative sentiment and suggested a forgotten narrative, and that made me move quickly on.

The bell was no longer ringing. I looked down at Horatio who lay perfectly still, with his eyes upturned, watching me as though looking for cues as to how to be. I held his gaze. A silent moment, devoid of thought but rich in the sensation of quietly existing. My mind’s eye rose up high above and looked down, and saw me standing there in a small, shabby room, in a small shabby Victorian mansion that stood alone surrounded by fields, on a small island surrounded by sea. And not a person to be seen anywhere.

A noise from outside distracted me and I turned to the window. Lifting the sticking sash with some difficulty, I lent out and looked down on the gravel driveway just in time to see a taxi driving away. There couldn’t have been many vehicles on the island and once the sound of the taxi’s engine had faded, all was silent save the plaintive call of a gull somewhere overhead. The air was sweet and clean and smelled of the sea. A sense of adventure washed over me and I felt, in that moment, on the cusp of something new. A change for the better. The possibility of a new start and a new life. But the feeling was soon tainted by rising angst. Ill defined fears raising their smirking heads. In truth I had no idea what I was going to do.

Djuna Barnes may have been able to discard her moral compass, although I somehow doubted it, but I had an unborn child to consider, who was reliant upon me. Whose very existence depended upon the swing of my moral compass. And there was Myles to consider. Did I have the right to ignore his paternal role? The love he may feel for his child? Djuna was wrong. All we can hope for is a future that’s as thawed as possible. An optimised future that suffers minimal interference from detrimental past influences. And the only real tool available to us that could help us to find that is our morality and our sense of justice and kindness.

Horatio had lifted his head and was watching me with his tongue lolling out. How could Djuna Barnes see only ‘instinctual choices’ in a creature that offered such loyalty and an obvious, intuitive awareness of my mood?

I decided to take a bath and was pleasantly surprised to find copious amounts of steaming hot water on tap, although the bath itself was an enamelled antique that wobbled slightly on four little curved, cast iron legs. Twenty minutes later, having dried myself with heavy, crisp and slightly abrasive towels that left me feeling invigorated and refreshed, I dressed, gathered up Horatio, and set off to explore the hotel and the grounds, slamming the room door behind me.

The passageway was dark and musty, with tatty Persian rugs that were probably splendid in their day, overlapping one another along its length. Looking down on the stairwell was a tall, arched window with a stained glass panel that cast a luminous pool of colour on bleached and faded wallpaper. With Horatio walking patiently beside me, I ran my hand down the broad dark banister and descended four floors down to the hotel reception.

Eric was there. Unmoving in such silence that I could make out a wheeze as he breathed. He looked up as I approached and in one seamless, unsmiling movement, reached behind the reception desk and presented me with a letter. I recognised it immediately. I’d written it myself. It was for Myles and I’d concocted it in a moment of emotional panic whilst on the ferry. I took it from him, smiled and thanked him.

‘Some bloke in a taxi just dropped it off for you. Said you wouldn’t know ‘im but he saw you drop it on the boat.’

The envelope felt damp in my hand, and it was creased. I turned it over. It had been opened and my letter was visible, my handwriting there like a guilty secret. But secret no more it would seem.

                                                                                                                           (by David)

Chapter Three

The bell rings incessantly, a distinct and piercing sound which reminds me of a child screaming. Horatio glances up at me, confusion and fear percolating his simple, animal mind. What is he thinking, I wonder? Does he sense that everything is no longer in place? Does he sense that my life is tumbling through a labyrinthine maze of confusion and choices and vacuous spaces? Djuna Barnes once wrote a book called  "Nightwood". She wrote about the instinctual choices of animals in an admiring and desiring way. To be truly free she wrote, you need to have no moral compass. No sense of obligation, no conscience, no obsession with the past that freezes your future.

I suppose I have just physically done that to Myles. I have fled, I have discarded my moral compass of obligation and consequence, and left them in that discarded waste can with my wallet, keys and phone. I have physically removed myself from his familiar, stale stench, from the feeling of his stubble on my shoulder, from the familiar sensation of his lip's against mine. Yet his face is stalking the shadows of my mind, the vision of his tired and confused face searching the room for me is dissipating through my borrowed sense of freedom.

He will miss me, but he will miss me like a tired, crumpled sofa misses a pillow. He will search for me in the rust of the pipes, in the rot of the wood, in the aching and spent morning's rays. He will search for me, but will he find me? Where am I to be found? Where should I go?

The bell continues to ring, mellowing now as it seeps back into the morning's horizon. Horatio returns his head to his paws, confused yet content as he lies beside me. All my choices have lead me up to this moment, the decision to love a man who could not love, the decision to stifle the boredom and sense of entrapment in my heart. The decision to leave all my mundane existence knew. The fragile balance of life's choices, the inescapable consequence of decisions hang before me.Whose story do I seek now? Do i return to the tired, grey and neglected corridor and uncover what has painted the misery on Eric's face? Do I find David, do I seek the stories that lie beneath his happy and exuberant facade?

Do I take the pill that will end the beating life within my stomach?

My hand curls around my abdomen and strokes it gently, as the bells surrender into the approaching anticipation of my decisions.




                                                                                                                        (by Rosie)